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I’m Worried About Bill.

Folks, please join me in my concern for fellow Riffer Bill Corbett. A series of seemingly unrelated events has been strung together by his latest bizarre missive renouncing, of all things, bacon.

It started as a lark, a curiosity really; last Saturday morning when I was preparing to cook some lovely bacon, our pup Boomer began barking furiously as he does when he spots a squirrel or a guy from Clean Water Action. But the moment got more curious when my spouse Jane called from the other end of the house, “Kevin, is that a bear?!” I ran to see what the hell she was referring to, but too late. Ever on the ball, though, Jane managed to snap a picture of the event:

It would not be uncommon to spot a bear in this neck of the woods, though very rare, especially one so mangy-looking and shy. But now here’s the odd part: When I returned to the kitchen, the bacon I was preparing to cook was gone. I assumed I’d misplaced it, because I’m always misplacing bacon, putting it in my coat pocket or folding it into my wallet for later, then forgetting. But this was special bacon, the excellent Theilen bacon made up Pierz way, the stuff that I couldn’t find after one of Martha Stewart’s assistants declared it delicious. I wouldn’t misplace Theilen bacon, it’s too thick to fit in the wallet. It was gone.

Then this morning, I read Bill’s disturbing post. A chill went up my neck and I raced for the phone. No answer at the Corbetts. He’d told me he was spending the week back east with family, but I had my doubts. The the final item hit me like a pork quarter tossed at me by a hog-cutter: A news bulletin about Paul Prudhomme, master Cajun chef and inveterate bacon lover, who was shot. Shot with a.22 slug from a gun never found. Shot, allegedly, while cooking bacon.

Chef Paul was merely grazed, thank God, but suddenly it all came together, like the strands of fat as they entwine with the rich belly meat in my purloined Theilen’s. I still can’t bring myself to say it. I still don’t know what to do. I take solace in my only remaining box of maple-bacon lollipops.

Pray for our friend Bill, please. Bring him back to us, and to bacon. I urge children and dogs everywhere to bend a knee.

I can’t buy into your”Billfoot” theory. I mean no criticism of Mr. Corbett, but he does not have that much hair on his head. Perhaps we should be looking for him in Texas where he is undoubtedly going to cause harm to the fine gentleman with the chicken fried bacon establishment.

Jack! Damn. I was hoping to keep you out of this. Jack is a nick name for John. -J J-. Jimmy Walker said things would be Dyno mite. This could have explosive implications. When was the last time you… did you hear that click just now? I have to go.

I’m worried about Bill for a different reason. I heard from a friend of a friend (and it doesn’t get more reliable than that) that Bill has developed an unhealthy fixation on the cheerleader from “Coffeehouse Rendezvous” and has squandered vast amounts of his personal fortune on attempts to locate her.

One of the highly-paid private investigators supposedly told Bill that the cheerleader was last seen rallying pep at an anti-bacon function at a pepperoni factory. Hence Bill’s shocking renouncement of the holiest of all meats.